The Desires of an Ordinary Couple (Reprinted)

I miss our first kiss, and the chill of that first autumn night.

Graduation is finally here, and everyone is immersed in dinners and tears. Fueled by alcohol, I hugged every boy I'd ever had a crush on, as if they would never appear in my life again. I'm about to leave this campus that gave me both joy and sorrow; an unknown world awaits me, and unknown men await me too.

I'm in the North, you're in the South. You said we have a long life ahead of us. We read letters expressing our longing for each other, yet we're sleeping with other people elsewhere. Life is unpredictable; I learned all sorts of strange positions, and every night I'd be busy with random things, wondering what girl I'd meet tomorrow.

From that moment, we built a relationship based on happiness. Like all lovers, we exchanged and shared joy, pain, disappointment, and hope. Neither of us thought about the future. I'm in good health, but I love to talk about death with a smile. One day I said, "If I die, I only want one tear from you." He laughed and pinched my nose, saying, "How could you die with me?" Then he kissed me, stopping me from saying anything more. The relationship ended with my unplanned pregnancy. As I lay on the operating table ending my child's life, I told myself, "Don't be afraid, he'll be standing outside the operating room embracing me." But he didn't appear. I deleted his phone number; there was no need for him to show up again.

I attended many friends' weddings, men and women, everyone's face painted with hope. I heard that the slut from Class 6 of university married a veteran, while my bunkmate told everyone he married a virgin. There were also several drinking buddies who kept getting divorced and remarried, comparing whose young wife was more extravagant while playing mahjong with no winners or losers.

One day, I drank a lot and opened my front door with a splitting headache. Suddenly, someone appeared behind me, grabbed me, and then gave me a forceful kiss that left me breathless. ...The act after getting drunk felt like a dream. You knew what the other person was doing, but the feeling was so unreal. When he entered me, I could only passively accept it—once, twice, three times... His movements were swift and decisive, giving me a sense of shame, like I'd been hunted. But I couldn't move; I couldn't slap him again... Finally, when the uncontrollable pleasure made me tremble, when I finally cried out, he bit me hard, and then I heard him say, "I love you." All

I wanted to say was: stolen orgasms are especially pleasurable. But the emptiness after the pleasure made me suddenly miss the time I spent with men. I smoked several cigarettes before finally letting myself call him—I said, "I want to come back to you..." He actually agreed. The voice on the other end of the line was a little muffled; was he crying?

And so, we walked down the aisle. The smiles of my parents, the tears of my mother-in-law, the sighs of my classmates, the indifference of my ex-girlfriend—everything went smoothly. At our wedding, we were impeccably dressed; in our wedding photos, we looked utterly bewildered. That night, we made love for a long time. I asked you where you came from, a mermaid, and that night felt like an endless fairytale.
We got married. All marriages begin simply and conventionally, yes, that's how it is. Only that night remains etched in my memory.

At dawn, devastating news arrived: on our wedding night, the guy in the bunk above us had died in a bathhouse near the Potala Palace. He died on top of a girl in Lhasa, completely naked, his fingers outstretched. It's said his soul can be forgiven because as he passed away in the throes of orgasm, his eyes were gazing up at the azure heavens.
A man's best friend died amidst pleasure; perhaps he was happy. I looked at the man beside me, wondering if he would one day leave like that too.

But the good times didn't last. Something called "son" emerged from the woman's body, weighing six pounds and seven ounces, with dark, long testicles. You said it was the fruit of our love. I thought it might just be another nightmare. My parents, playing with their grandson's genitals, wiped away tears, saying our family would be filled with descendants from now on.

I, once a beautiful and slender woman, have become a plump and healthy mother. Every day I'm constantly worried about my son running around the room. Work and family leave me exhausted, and all I want to do is lie in my comfortable bed. This child is as clever as a fairy; as soon as he learned to speak, he saw a big face on TV and called out "Zhang Chaoyang."

There's a saying that women in their thirties are like wolves and in their forties like tigers, but my woman is like a mammoth. She no longer maintains her figure, but her desires are hotter and longer-lasting. Every time the child falls asleep, she pulls me to the corner of the bed. Under the night sky, it's a slightly terrifying face. But I, as a man, am gradually withering; at forty, my manhood is no longer its sharpest weapon.

However, as the child grows older, I find that desire, like a snake, has returned to my body. Perhaps it's because the child is around that it has a hidden thrill. I experience the initial passion of marriage in endless intimacy, but I find that a man's passion seems to be gradually slipping away. Is it the child that has changed my body, or is it time that has changed everything?

God help me, the woman who had been frowning once again softened, because her son, only in elementary school, already had a penis longer than an iPhone. At the parent-teacher conference, the teacher said that our son increasingly preferred going into the girls' restroom, and my dear woman angrily denounced him as illiterate. She ignored me, becoming increasingly concerned about her son's behavior at home, and thus only remembered to ask me to "pay my dues" every few days.

At a moment when the setting sun was like blood, I smiled coldly, a half-smoked cigarette in my hand. A huge clock on the wall ticked silently. I felt a little cold and put on the man's sweater. The cigarette that once nearly made me choke to death now obediently stayed on my fingertips.

Picking myself up, I regrouped, and my so-called career soared. I drove a Mercedes to work and rode a Ram on weekends, exploiting white-collar workers in over 500 cities. My PetroChina shares finally got hard. My woman said her husband was good, and then deposited all my money into her private bank account. A new mistress named Janny joined the office. She's curvaceous and looks a lot like my wife back in the day, except this vixen is too audacious; she acts like a slut even during board meetings. I was talking about corporate strategy and company management, but my mind was racing with thoughts of her. Suddenly, the phone rang
, each ring like a death knell.
"Sorry, I'm very busy today," he said on the phone, then silence.
"Then you're busy..." he hung up. I broke down in tears, collapsing onto the carpet.

That evening, there was thunder outside. I was in my office watching the sunset beyond the clouds, swearing to God this wasn't premeditated, because I was supposed to go shopping with my wife that night. Janny walked in sometime during the night, saying she had something to report. I asked why I wasn't home yet, and she said that even if I went home, I'd be alone in an empty house. As the old saying goes, "Enough said," we made our battlefield on the large desk. Even at almost fifty, I was surprisingly vigorous, and this 20-year-old girl said it was incredibly satisfying.

I've started to enjoy doing laundry. I want to wash away the unfamiliar cologne smell from men's shirts, washing them vigorously, but they're never completely clean. I put them in the glaring summer sun to dry, but the perfume smell is still there. Your sweaters, the sweaters I knitted myself, are now stained with lipstick marks that can never be washed off. What brand of lipstick is that? I want to buy a tube, because it lasts so long. My lipstick, however, always disappears after a passionate kiss.

My hair in the mirror is still black, but the hair in that area has turned gray. The woman said that the smaller head is obviously working harder than the larger one; you must be a thief and a prostitute outside. After 60, you're one foot in the grave; see if a fox drags you to the graveyard one day. I swear to Chairman Mao, I only had that one accidental moment of madness. That vixen was long ago banished to Shenzhen to become the bride of a fake document seller. My prostate started acting up, and I no longer feel any excitement when I see beautiful women. That once-persistent desire has inexplicably waned; I probably won't even produce half an ounce of semen a year.
Besides my husband and son, I had a third man, an artistic man. We dated weekly, then slept in wet embraces before going home.

My son was repeating my story, only he was a hundred times more adventurous than I was, having gone through seven or eight girls in just two years of work. His mother said the young scoundrel inherited his old ways, I said young people in a harmonious society are all growing up. My son didn't want to hear our old stories, he said these days women only care about money, everything else is just a fling.
I'm 56, my husband has become more obedient, no longer having any romantic affairs except for social engagements. Meanwhile, my 19-year-old son also has a girlfriend and a secret about sex.

That night, my prostate was killing me, I helplessly stared at the moonlight filtering through the curtains, my tears falling on my wrinkled hands, while my wife slept soundly, snoring away. My career had become tedious, the business and tax departments were constantly keeping me on edge, I missed the days of eating pancakes on the street with my bunkmate, I missed the times I cried in front of the girls' dormitory. That night I fell asleep with tears in my eyes, and in my black and white dream, a pear tree was in full bloom amidst an endless expanse of crabapple blossoms.

My heart often races and my face flushes in the afternoons. I know I'm about to say goodbye to my old friend, my egg. This came quietly, just like my first period years ago. I couldn't resist it, and couldn't help feeling a little sad. My husband bought me some medicine. As I grow older, his tenderness towards me increases. Sadly, we can never return to the passion of our youth.

I'm old, unbelievably old. Many people call me "Grandpa," but I no longer consider it an insult. A nurse strapped a pacemaker to my body, and I asked if she could put an electric sausage in my lower body too. The nurse said, "Grandpa, you can't change your lustful nature." My wife, in her wheelchair, said he was just putting on an act. Every night I doubt whether I'll wake up tomorrow, and every morning a woman wants to lie on my chest. She says, "You can't walk before me, otherwise this bed will be too cold at night."

He would quietly watch me in the afternoons while I slept, and then read a book in the sunlight. And I would often stroke his forehead after he fell asleep.

My friends died one after another, and my son continued to change girls every few days. That day, I saw the woman's silver hair, gleaming under the dim light, and I suddenly realized how much I loved this woman. I suddenly regretted not reserving all my passion for her desire. Now, I can only stroke her withered hands and silver hair every day, asking her if she likes the tranquil sunlight after the storm. Before my

19-year-old son went to university to live on campus, I washed his underwear for the last time. In the sunlight, the residue on it shimmered. That stuff had a special smell, different to everyone's nose. This was my farewell gift. My

son finally had his legal spouse. She looked like Sun Er, the man who sold human flesh buns. The woman cried secretly all day, saying she felt sorry for our son, how could he have married such a shrew? I didn't think my son had taken the wrong medicine. That woman must be particularly skilled in bed. Their life was like a grand, resounding bell, constantly making the Simmons mattress creak and groan.

At 62, my son got married, and I began to embrace religion. The Bible is an interesting book. Because it's not just about God; it's also about sex. Sex allowed Adam and Eve to procreate; obscene sex led God to destroy humanity; incestuous sex allowed Lot's daughters to continue the human race… Wherever there are people, wherever there are men and women, there will inevitably be sex. Although I've gradually given up on sex, I've discovered interesting theories about sex. Especially after experiencing the mysterious interpretation of sex through the Bible, I felt immense joy. I want to praise the Lord, praise God, praise life, praise… sex. Perhaps this is life; when you say goodbye to something, you realize its beauty even more.

Fortunately, my daughter-in-law was quite reliable and soon gave birth to a child. My wife looked over for a long time, her face darkening, and told me her heart was ice-cold. This child wouldn't grow up to be like that, because she simply didn't look like that.

At 68, I became a grandmother. I was cooking chicken soup at home when my husband answered the phone in the living room. He looked up and said, "I'm so sorry, but I'm so worried about you." He then called out to me, "I'm so worried about you." He looked at me with a strange expression, then said, "I'm so worried about you." He then added, "I'm so worried about you." He then said, "I'm so worried about you." He then added, "I'm so worried about you." He then said, "Really, don't blame me for being sexist; it's a completely different feeling."

The old cat that used to pass by my door hasn't appeared since; it's probably died of old age in some garbage dump. Even getting out of bed has become difficult for me, but my dear woman can get out of bed again. She said she dreamed of me as a teenager, pulling her along as we ran through fields of red sorghum.

We're both getting old. I can clearly feel that my legs aren't as strong as they used to be; climbing stairs is so strenuous, while my man struggles even to get out of bed. I've fallen in love with memories, whether in the daytime or in my dreams. I think about my man, and also about those men who once said they loved me, and occasionally, I even feel a desire.

That day, she helped me take a bath. In the warm bathtub, her hands gently caressed my body, and I was surprised to find that my manhood was erect. I felt a light, exhilarating sensation all over my body. My woman said, "You old devil, still so indecent! Be careful you don't destroy your fragile heart." I laughed and replied, "Looks like Yang Zhenning isn't all that great after all. Maybe I'm an even better old gun than him." My woman lovingly touched my manhood, and a faint tear welled up in the corner of her eye. She said, "If you're willing, let's go all out one last time."

The man hadn't showered for a week. I helped him into the bathtub, touching his still-broad shoulders, a pang of sadness welling up inside me. This was the man I'd guarded for most of my life, but one day we would each go our separate ways. He desperately wanted to pick up his old gun again, and this time it became the most unforgettable moment of our lives.

That last burst of passion nearly killed me, but our actions were met with enthusiastic praise from our children. My son said, "Dad, you're amazing! Even though you can't stand up, you can still ride a horse and wield your gun!" My wife said, "You two are a model couple; you should go on CCTV and talk about your feelings afterward." The price of this madness was six months of hospitalization. When I was discharged, I couldn't live without that ugly cane. My wife asked me if I regretted it. I said it was the happiest time of my life. If I really went there that day, I would walk into a paradise full of beautiful women with a smile.

The man was hospitalized; after all, he was over 70 years old, how could he withstand such madness? Our children and grandchildren shuttled between the hospital and home every day, and I would cook him a pot of soup. I remained immersed in memories, the sadness of impending death making me yearn to hear the voices that had once whispered in my ear. Trembling, I picked up the phone, one call, two calls, three calls… but the men who had given me climaxes had all left this beautiful world.

I finally gave up completely, wholeheartedly welcoming the man who had returned from the hospital. We seemed to return to our youthful days, walking hand-in-hand every day, sharing heartbreaks only we understood.

From then on, we had no regrets. Every day, we sat contentedly in the rocking chairs by the door, hand in hand. A new kitten came to our door; it loved to hug our legs, lick our hands, and pounce on the damselflies fluttering in the sky. Before we knew it,

our granddaughter had given birth to a big, healthy boy, and our family had become four generations under one roof. The woman, whose eyes were nearly blind, shouted, "Quickly, let's see what that thing is like!" Her grandson-in-law said it was a bunch of white, somewhat strangely shaped like an old man's peanuts. The woman muttered that this boy wasn't a man, and would likely be a coward in the future. I said, "Why are you worrying about things a hundred years from now? You're blind, yet you're still concerned about how black and long that thing is."

At 92, I had a great-grandson, and our family had become a four-generation household. But I couldn't see the child's face clearly anymore. Shortly after the child learned to walk, my husband suffered a cerebral hemorrhage during a spring outing and was admitted to the intensive care unit.

That day, we were sunbathing together again when my great-grandson, who had just learned to walk, reached out his little hand to me. I guessed he wanted me to help him pee, so I struggled to get up and pick him up. Suddenly, everything went black, followed by a flash of white light. When I woke up, I was lying on the floor, the child's warm urine spraying on my face. I wanted to call my wife, but I couldn't bear to disturb her sleep.

I know my heart is about to stop beating, but I'd rather it be, silently searching for the legendary heaven. The child cried and screamed, and I just smiled as I watched his trembling little penis, whispering, "Don't be afraid, child, the old man is leaving now. Your journey is long, very long..."

The man finally left me. As a woman, my life has been so rich. Passion, pain, joy, tears. As a woman, I may not be conventional or loyal. But I am loyal to my body and my desires; I have been true to myself and don't want to hurt others. If I haven't done enough, please forgive me. I am just an ordinary woman. Perhaps, a woman like me can also go to heaven.

It's a beautiful spring, but I think I should go—the ward is clean and quiet, the air filled with the fragrance of disinfectant. I flip through the album of memories, remembering, remembering my man, remembering the economics major, the art history teacher, remembering my lover whom he never knew and never will know...

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The Desires of an Ordinary Couple (Reprinted)

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